The Old Ways E-Book

RK Summers

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 494

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Something snapped. He let the arrow fly.

The night Thomas Rhymer’s young sister is stolen away by shadows and smoke, he discovers there’s more to life than the fields and forests he knows so well. If he has any hope of rescuing Alissa, he must first cross into a realm where magic is lifeblood, and where shadows dance with dragonfire.

With the help of the seelie faery Thistledown, Thomas embarks on a treacherous quest, deep into the heart of war-raved Albion. But getting his sister back means pledging aid to Mab, the usurped Queen of the Old Ways, against the tyranny of the Dark Prince.

Yet danger and deceit lie around every corner, and some secrets are better left untold.

Leseprobe

The Old Ways

RK Summers

Published by Inspired Quill: September 2015

First Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The publisher has no control over, and is not responsible for, any third party websites or their contents.

The Old Ways © 2015 by RK Summers

Contact the author through their website:

www.rksummers.com

Chief Editor: Sara-Jayne Slack

Cover Design by: Venetia Jackson

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-908600-38-7

eBook ISBN: 978-1-908600-39-4

EPUB Edition

Inspired Quill Publishing, UK

Business Reg. No. 7592847

http://www.inspired-quill.com

Dedication

For my Grandfather

George Summers

who told me stories

on rainy days

George Summers

1930-2012

“Look, Grandad. I did it.”

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

1. The beginning of a war

2. In which a stag has a narrow escape

3. In which Thomas invokes the Old Ways

4. In which Thomas embarks on his journey

5. In which Thomas meets Epona

6. In which Thomas Rhymer crosses a bridge

7. In which a crow meets an unfortunate end

8. In which Thomas and Meri are kidnapped

9. In which Thomas meets Blackspot Bonney

10. In which Thomas sets sail

11. In which first blood is spilled

12. In which Thomas hears a story

13. In which wicked words are exchanged

14. In which Thomas discovers something terrifying in the cave

15. In which Thomas embarks on a fool’s errand

16. In which Thomas and Thissy enter Elphame

17. In which a forest comes to Thomas’s aid

18. In which Thomas falls into the hands of the Old Gods

19. In which Thomas fights a dragon

20. In which water flows the wrong way

21. In which storm clouds gather

22. In which Thomas encounters a different dragon

23. In which Elphame suffers the fury of the Dragon King

24. In which Queen Mab offers some calming words

25. In which the sky burns

26. In which Elphame takes over the underground

27. In which Thomas finally understands

28. In which a queen returns to her people

29. In which the seelie discuss their fate

30. In which Thomas Rhymer looks into his soul

31. In which the Dragon King regains his pride

32. In which a traitor is made known

33. In which a wolf is tamed

34. In which someone is given a weighty task

35. In which a sword is reforged

36. In which Mab indulges in a stolen moment

37. In which the Black Heart has his moment of glory

38. In which there is a rescue

39. In which Corvus partakes of forbidden wine

40. In which Queen Mab tastes Dragon Fire

41. In which the seelie begin their battles

42. In which Mab makes a friend

43. In which Monstrance’s world crumbles

44. In which his march begins

45. In which sibling rivalry reaches its peak

46. In which his last battle begins

47. In which moonlight aids Thomas

48. In which Thomas finds peace

Epilogue: His Final Resting Place

Translation Guide

Acknowledgements

I hope you can forgive that I can’t name you all, but these acknowledgements do need to be shorter than the novel. Still, you all know who you are. You believed in me, you supported me and gave me courage when I thought I was going to fail. And most importantly, you brought me coffee when I was flagging and notebooks when I ran out. You are the best and most wonderful friends I could ever ask for.

And to those who scoffed, who were rude, who told me to give up and stop daydreaming, I have no words for you… except that I hope you fall in a ditch of nettles.

On a lighter note:

To my Mama Bear, who never lets me be anything less than perfect, who dances with me when I’m sad, and who loves me beyond words.

And to my Papa Bear, who does the most accurate impression of Gollum I’ve ever seen, who brings me chocolate when I’m down, and who raised and loved me as his own.

I love you both so much.

My best friend, Tatty, who puts up with my late-night “I’ve got a great idea!” texts, and who’s not afraid to tell me which of those “great ideas” are actually terrible.

Rachael, Laura, and Hannah, my equestrian advisors, for when my own knowledge fails me (which is actually all the time, as I know absolutely zero about horses).

Fiona and EJ, my editorsextraordinaire! For being kind with the Red Pen of Doom, even though I was a young author fledgling without the thick skin of maturity to protect me. You two gave my writing the fresh minty breath of life it so desperately needed.

Venetia, who created the spectacular front cover for my debut novel. When I first saw it, I made the most inhuman squeal. It’s beautiful, Venetia. Your work is exquisite.

And Sara, who saw an eccentric Northern girl who still believes in faeries and magic, and gave her a chance to achieve what she’d dreamed of her entire life, I can only say thank you.

Faery Blessings on you all.

The Old Ways

Chapter 1

The beginning of a war

The forest slept, silent and still. Spring’s first buds were opening to welcome the cool dew of morning, and a herd of white deer stood like sentinels, motionless among the pallid bodies of birch trees. The chill of winter had lessened, and the dusting of frost that sparkled in the pale morning light had melted away. A persistent mist still hung around the graceful trees like a blanket.

The brazen scream of a terrified child broke the silence.

A little girl gripped her mother’s hand tightly as they fled through the bracken, her legs too short to keep up without aid. Her mother skidded to a halt, scanning the forest, muttering wildly to herself, “hurry, hurry!”

As if the wind had carried her plea to him, a slim, unkempt man burst through the foliage. A coat of blood painted his teeth red.

“Riaghán!” with a relieved sigh, the mother took a step to embrace him, but he stopped her.

“No time, Bram. I’ll carry Thissy, hurry!” Riaghán spat blood onto the ground and swept his daughter into his arms. Jerking his head to indicate their path, he turned and ran, Bram racing after him.

Riaghán’s thumping heart pounded in his ears. Thissy buried her face in her father’s neck, her tears soaking his hair. The family dashed between trees, scattering the ghostly deer that blocked their path ahead. Thundering hooves fast approached, drowning out even Riaghán’s frantic panting.

They’d been fools to think the forest would offer sanctuary.

“Papa!”

Thissy’s scream punctured Riaghán’s heart. He spun, clutching her tightly to his chest with one arm as a black-clad rider, mounted on a horse of easily fifteen hands, drew within striking distance. He raised an obsidian sword – Riaghán thrust forward his free arm.

“Tarrthála!”

Thick branches whipped down with a crack, curling around the rider and lifting him from his horse. The boughs squeezed. A moment later, the limp body dropped to the ground with a heavy thud.

“My thanks,” Riaghán nodded to the oak tree. The family turned and ran again. Slower now, exhausted from carrying his daughter and his use of magic, Riaghán dared not stop for breath. He couldn’t; not until they were safe.

“Cut them off!” a shout from behind drove terror deep into him. Despite Thissy’s desperate sobs, Riaghán was too frantic in his movements to offer words of comfort. Bram tripped over a root and fell into the bracken. Riaghán veered to a halt. He hated the roughness, but blinded by necessity, he dragged her to her feet and pulled her onwards again.

An arrow whistled through shivering leaves, burying itself in Riaghán’s shoulder blade. He screamed and dropped onto his knees, clutching Thissy tighter.

Thissy whimpered, breaking away from him as Bram knelt beside her husband. Riaghán trembled with pain as Bram laid her shaking hands on the wound.

“Keep still, my love,” Bram whispered anxiously. In the distance, victorious shouts crept closer as more riders navigated through the foliage. This enclosed thicket bought only a little time. Riaghán silently blessed the confining forest.

“No, there’s no time. Take Thissy and run. Hide. Bram, go, now…”

“But I can heal—”

“Go!”

Bram pulled Riaghán close and kissed him deeply, salty tears stinging between their lips. Thissy pushed herself between them and embraced him. Riaghán kissed her head, clutching his wife and daughter close.

“Papa?” Thissy began, but he shushed her.

“Go with Mama now,” he gasped, releasing his daughter and clutching his throbbing left arm. He looked up. “Bram… go to Elphame, to Queen Mab. Tell her he’s coming for her.”

A sob wracked through Bram as she nodded. She kissed Riaghán one more time, took her daughter by the hand, and fled into the sanctuary of the trees.

Riaghán knelt in the mulch of the forest floor, his breathing laboured. The cold iron arrowhead burned into his faery flesh. He desperately wanted it out, but knew he’d cause more damage by yanking it free.

Jeers of riders soon accompanied their snorting horses. Riaghán didn’t raise his head as they trotted to a halt around him. There was no need; he knew exactly who these horsemen were.

“Finally,” said the voice nearest him, carrying traces of a laugh. “I thought he’d never go down.”

Riaghán looked up, throwing a slow, cold glare at the finely dressed rider, but kept his tongue still. He prayed Bram and Thissy were long out of sight.

“A fine shot, brother,” said another, more sullen voice.

“Should we tell Father it was yours, Corvus? He’d be proud of you, if he thought you’d taken down a seelie—”

“Mothblood bastards,” Riaghán rasped. “We’ll never submit to unseelie rule…”

“Watch your tongue, leaf-ear!” The huntsman rounded his horse, kicking Riaghán hard in the face. He landed sideways in the springy moss, leaves clinging to his damp hair. His arm throbbed with mounting pain.

“Calm your temper, Malik,” Corvus chided. Malik frowned, then his eyes travelled past his brother at the sound of hooves. He straightened respectfully as another horse approached, bearing a rider Riaghán had hoped not to encounter.

His fingers numb with fear, he pushed himself back to his knees. “Prince Erlik…” Riaghán swallowed. The prince wore a slithering black cloak, which put Riaghán in mind of shadows and smoke. The emblem of a great, black dragon proudly reared on the chest of his surcoat.

“Where is she?” Erlik asked. Riaghán stayed silent. Narrowing his eyes, he spat a bloody mess at the ground. The prince scowled, black-gloved hands tightening on his horse’s rein.

“Filthy seelie scullion,” Erlik dismounted, approaching Riaghán with a slow, dangerous pace. “Where’s your queen, leaf-ear?”

“You killed my son, you bastard.” Riaghán lowered his head. He murmured, “Titim gan éirí ort… Mab, cosain mé—” to his knees.

Rolling his eyes and tutting in disgust, Erlik sneered at the wounded seelie.

“You think a leaf-ear prayer will save you? You really think she’s listening?” Erlik unsheathed his sword. Behind the Prince, Riaghán saw Malik and Corvus glance at one another; these two brothers were just green boys, Riaghán realised. Two hound pups newly unleashed, desperate to prove themselves to their father.

“My sword is newly forged,” Erlik continued, pressing its point into Riaghán’s throat. “Yet to taste its first blood. You’ll have the honour. Unless you tell me where she is. Your queen for your life.”

Riaghán remained silent, counting the passing moments in his head. His eyes flickered up and down the blade: he couldn’t escape this fate. Gathering what little strength he had left, he staggered to his feet. Erlik took a step back, looking mildly surprised, but amused at this determination.

“To Annwyn with you! Long live Queen Mab!” Riaghán bellowed, thrusting his uninjured arm towards the nearest oak trees. Before he could utter the words to bring them to life, Erlik lunged forward, driving his sword deep into Riaghán’s chest.

The seelie gave a choked grunt. Blood sprayed between clenched teeth and over his lips. He fell.

Erlik withdrew his blade and glared at the dead seelie. Malik glanced at Corvus first, then looked at their father with an expression of hope. Erlik snorted.

“Did you expect me to be proud?” he asked his eldest coldly. “You let his woman and child escape, then encouraged your brother to lie to me. And Corvus?” The meeker of the brothers quailed. “Don’t show your miserable face until you manage to kill at least one leaf-ear by yourself. Do you understand?”

The brothers caught one another’s eye, faces reddening. Erlik mounted his horse again, pulling the reins. “You’re both a disgrace.”

He called to the other riders who had been waiting at the clearing’s fringe, “Continue the search. I want Mab taken alive and unharmed. And unspoiled,” he added, menace colouring his voice. “Send word to me as soon as you find the city. Torture every leaf-ear you come across; burn Albion to the ground if that’s what it takes. Just find her. Find her,” he repeated angrily, and pulled his horse away.

Hidden in the foliage, Bram and Thissy trembled at Prince Erlik’s wrath. Albion would suffer in a way it had never known. This war was only just beginning.

Chapter 2

In which a stag has a narrow escape

Behind a patch of undergrowth, hidden by his forest-green tunic, Thomas Rhymer pulled his bowstring taut.

Through the trees, a white stag peacefully grazed. The beast gleamed, so cleanly bright it almost glowed in the darkness, velvety antlers bent and twisted like the branches of an ancient tree. Ears twitched. It raised its head, turning towards him, staring with black, doleful eyes.

As he gazed back, Thomas felt his heart beat an uncomfortable staccato against his ribs.

What are you waiting for? Shoot!

But, instead, his hands shook. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. Something snapped. He let his arrow fly.

The unharmed creature bounded away, easily avoiding the arrow which, quivering, embedded in a tree trunk.

Thomas stared. He let out the long breath he hadn’t realised he’d held, running his now free hand over his face. He couldn’t tell; was it relief or fury he felt as the stag escaped?

Pushing his way out of the undergrowth while cursing his indecision, Thomas stormed to the tree to tug his arrow out. Sap bled and slid down the bark like honey.

He’d been hunting for years in these murky forests bordering Ercildoune. Just a glimpse of a white stag was a rare occurrence in Caledonia. I’ll never live this down. He quietly decided he’d keep this sighting to himself.

A childish kick to the tree yielded only a sharp pain in his foot.

Thomas glowered at the tree as though it had done him some personal insult, then turned his back, starting his short trek home, limping on every other step.

Following roughly hewn paths through the trees, he approached a familiar warren of fat, healthy rabbits. As they had dozens of times before, his arrows caught up with them quick enough.

Well, he huffed to himself, tying the catch to his pack, rabbit for supper. Again.

Now pleased with himself at having made right his earlier failure, he ploughed on through the bracken until he saw thin wisps of chimney smoke. With a smile, Thomas left the trees’ shade, heading up the grassy knoll towards home.

As he drew closer, he saw his younger sister Alissa darning a threadbare tunic in the warm autumn sun, lips pursed, no doubt humming to herself. At his approach she looked up, squinting against the sunlight at her broad-shouldered and square-jawed brother. Despite leaving boyhood behind some years ago, Thomas still bore the fair, wavy hair, pale blue eyes, and crooked smile of his younger days.

Something that made him the sweetheart of girls but the mockery of hempy men.

“Ahh,” Alissa said, a cheeky grin spreading across her face. “Our brave knight returns!”

Thomas stopped dead, folding his arms with a sigh, a faint smile twitching the corner of his lips.

“But what’s this, Sir Thomas?” Alissa continued, voice exaggerated. She lay down the tunic she had been repairing, and rose to circle him. “No great bounty claimed from your quest?” She nudged him, then playfully clasped a hand over her heart. “I fear our daring champion has failed in his crusade. For shame, Sir Thomas.”

“You wound me, Alissa,” Thomas gave her a quick smile and continued past, headed for the house. Alissa grinned and watched him go, her hands planted on her hips. The breeze played with her unbraided hair and ruffled her skirt.

“Enough teasing,” came another voice from inside the house. “Any luck at all, Thomas?”

Their mother hurried, smiling, into the sunlight. She looked hopefully at Thomas’s pack and her shoulders lifted, seeing his modest catch.

“Rabbit again.” Despite her words, her voice harboured pride.

“I’ll go to town tomorrow—” Thomas began, and at once Alissa appeared at his side.

“May I go with him?” she asked, eyes gleaming. Thomas’s shoulders slumped when their mother agreed. Alissa returned to her darning, and Thomas huffed as he entered the house. Margaret followed, unaware – or perhaps ignoring – her children’s respective smile and pout.

“Thomas, don’t forget it’s almost Alissa’s name day.”

Thomas didn’t look at his mother. Instead, he untied the brace of rabbits and laid them out on the table. Margaret’s eyes counted them and at last Thomas glanced up.

“I know. That’s why I wanted to go into town without her,” he replied, trying his grin, but clearly failing to win her over.

“You said you’d already gotten her something,” Margaret looked mortified and absently played with the string of prayer beads around her neck, as she always did when she felt uncomfortable. Thomas snorted and shrugged.

“I may have coloured the truth a little, Mother. I know what I’m going to get her, it’s just a matter of… obtaining it.”

Margaret at last gave him a smile.

“You always leave everything to the last hour, just like your father.” Twisting the prayer beads, she reached with her free hand to touch a coney’s hind leg, then spoke again in a quiet voice. “Fifteen years ago today…”

Thomas’s smile slipped. He heaved a sigh and looked away again.

“He said he’d come back with a present for every name day he’d missed,” Mother went on. “That wretched war—”

“There never was a war,” Thomas cut in bitterly. “Father exaggerated. He just left us.”

“He loved us, Thomas, you know he did. He had his reasons for leaving, I’m sure, but…” for a moment her words hung in the air. “Well. At least he left us some decent coin. We’d be homeless otherwise.” She looked at her son, tensing uncomfortably. “You’ve been having those nightmares again,” she said in a quiet voice.

A disgruntled frown creased Thomas’s brow. “It’s nothing to concern yourself over,” he muttered, turning towards his bed space.

“We can hear you shouting in your sleep,” Margaret said, but he’d already stridden past her. “Thomas, don’t ignore me—”

He slammed the thin door behind him.

In the quiet of his own space, Thomas dropped the hunting gear by his door and threw himself down on his bed. He groaned into the down pillow, venting frustration. Emptying his mind of thought, he lay there for a while, and then dragged himself up to finish the rest of his chores while the sun still cast a useful glow above the horizon.

At day’s end, Thomas collapsed back into bed, falling asleep the moment his eyes closed.

It was a slumber in which he achieved no rest.

The night terrors were not new. Plagued by them since boyhood, Thomas had often awoken to the sound of his own screams. As he aged, he grew quite accustomed to his dreams, and although they no longer scared him, something about them still unnerved him; some strange, eager yearning.

In these dreams, Thomas saw places he’d never been, yet they seemed as familiar as his own home. Forgotten paths wound through forests he’d never traversed. Misty valleys lay stretched out before him, with cool morning skies blushing pink at the arrival of sunlight.

Yet, every night, as he walked through the woodland, these forests became engulfed in flame. Fire spewed from the maw of a huge black dragon as it stretched its spiked wings skyward. The beast tore through the trees, ripping them up by their roots. And in the valleys, with a roar of its fiery breath, it laid waste to all.

Over the sound of his screams and the crackling heat, Thomas heard others scream for mercy, begging forgiveness from the dragon for unknown crimes.

But this night Thomas dreamt of something new, something that roused greater fear and curiosity.

He stood much taller in this new dream, shoulders broader, blood hot with battle-lust, his arms strong enough to wield a massive sword with a ruby set into its pommel. His steed – a mighty black charger with hooves of finest obsidian glass – stamped and snorted, its eyes gleaming a flaming red.

“For the queen!” he heard himself bellow, “And for Elphame!”

He charged his steed forward, trampling hordes of soldiers that beset every side, trying to drag him down, realising the young captain would strike a devastating blow to their campaign. Thomas swung his sword in a downward arc, slicing a path of victory for his armies to follow behind.

Ready to announce triumph, Thomas turned his horse. Instead of seeing his cheering army, his eyes found a woman bearing two long, curving swords.

Fear muted all sound. His horse’s hot breath steamed in the air. The mount backed up, pawing the ground. Thomas’s first thought overpowered him.

Run.You will not survive this.

Her crimson armour gleamed under the wounded sky, the curved swords already dripping blood. Even her ruby-painted smirk masked the hatred behind her eyes, her beauty only a facade.

“Your father will never take our city!” he heard himself bellow.

She sneered, “He already has. Your battle is lost!”

Thomas woke with a scream, panting, soaked in sweat.

*     *     *

Next morning, Thomas and Alissa made their way over the hill into Ercildoune: Thomas on Tatterfoal, his faithful gelding, and Alissa on her small grey pony. The warmth of the previous day had melted into a grey, misty morning, another sign of the approaching winter. Thomas wished he’d brought his warmer cloak.

The first bleary-eyed market dwellers were already milling between stalls when the pair arrived. Thomas felt as they looked: exhausted, cold. Far too miserable from his night of restless sleep to enjoy the prospect of wandering around a bleak, damp market.

Only the thought of catching a few stolen words with Úna – a particularly winsome serving maid at the Dancing Kelpie – cheered him.

“Thomas!” Alissa reached over and grabbed her brother’s arm. Lost in thoughts of Úna, Thomas started. “Look!”

Thomas squinted. There, where she pointed at the far side of the square, he saw several brightly painted caravans, and silently groaned. Damn.

“Can we go over? Please?” Alissa asked, affecting her most innocent smile. Thomas gave her a stony look in reply as he dismounted.

“Please tell me you jest,” he said, tying the reins of their mounts to the posts beside the smithy. “It’s not like—Alissa!”

She’d already jumped off her pony, heading through the market stalls, towards the caravans. Thomas’s groan escaped this time, and he followed her, instinctively touching a hand to his coin purse.

Dusky men stood beside the few already-unloaded wagons, full of stormy looks, occupying themselves with chewing on their smoking pipes.

Thomas instinctively inhaled, puffing up his chest with each step. One of the men blew out a mouthful of smoke. Trying to push through to reach Alissa, he walked headfirst into the cloud. His coughing fit and furious glare were met with sniggering.

“Fine, you’ve seen the caravans, let’s go now,” he muttered as he reached his sister, who had paused to look around. She tugged her arm out of his grip.

“Not yet, I want to see the fortune teller,” she said, standing on her tiptoes to see around the caravans. “I don’t see her, can you see?”

Thinking of his God-fearing mother, Thomas said, “A fortune teller? Alissa, Mother will kill you.”

Alissa gave him a cheeky smile. “Mother’s not here though, is she?”

Thomas cast a longing look back in the direction of their tethered horses, but knew he’d never leave his little sister alone here.

“There she is!” Alissa pointed, and, despite his better judgement, Thomas let her drag him along to a painted caravan, where a tiny old woman sat at a little round table, shuffling a set of well-worn cards.

Eyes alight with glee, Alissa stood before the old woman, watching her lay out her cards.

“Come on, Alissa,” Thomas said, coaxing her away. “She’s not to be bothered—”

“D’you want to hear yer fortune, lass?” the old woman suddenly asked, voice reedy with age. Thomas blinked when Alissa sat, nodding enthusiastically. Her eyes roved over the gypsy’s cards, but the old woman gestured for her hand. Alissa immediately extended it.

Thomas stood by with crossed arms, highly displeased at how this day was unfolding.

The old gypsy stared at Alissa’s hand, running her fingers over the palm. Thomas could see Alissa trying to stifle a giggle. S’blood, he cursed with a roll of his eyes.

The woman frowned, leaning in for a closer look.

“What’s wrong?” Alissa asked.

“Silver Wheel!” the old woman exclaimed. She looked up, taking stock of Thomas, her eyes agleam with whatever she’d seen. “Din’t realise you folk came this close.”

Frowning, Thomas and Alissa looked at each other. ‘You folk?’ Alissa mouthed.

“I’m sorry?” Alissa managed at last to say. Unsteadily, the crone released her hand and stood.

“Get yourselves back whence you came!” She waved her arm, angrily shooing Alissa away from her table.

A low growl escaped Thomas. “Beg pardon?” He stepped forward, one hand alighting on Alissa’s shoulder. Three heavily built men appeared from behind the wagon, and Thomas’s resolve wilted. “Come, Alissa,” he said sullenly. His sister nodded in miserable agreement as she dropped a silver coin onto the table in payment.

“Keep that poisoned coin, pixiekin!” the woman shouted, snatching it up to throw back. Alissa flinched when the coin hit its mark.

The men gathered around the crone, jeering. Thomas stood taller, holding his head high, but the men seemed to take his action as a threat. With flexing fists, they muttered black words and approached.

It took all Thomas had to shield Alissa from the clods of thrown mud as they ran from the caravans.

The pair skidded to a halt once they’d fled out of range. Both stood doubled over, panting.

Thomas wheezed. He sniffed and stood upright, trying to catch his breath. “Told you… we shouldn’t have… gone over…”

Alissa rewarded his smugness with a filthy glare.

Somewhere around midday, sun replaced drizzle and burnt away the cool mist. More people appeared in the market, taking advantage of the better weather. With Tatterfoal’s saddlebag heavier now, Thomas and Alissa untied their horses, mounted, and headed back home.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to see Úna,” Alissa mumbled. Thomas said nothing in return.

They’d reached an unspoken promise, it seemed, to not mention the encounter with the crone to their mother. Alissa greeted her with a falsely cheerful grin when they arrived home. Thomas rolled his eyes, but Margaret said nothing about it. Let her think we’ve argued.

Once inside, he hid the skein of silk he’d discreetly bartered for, for Alissa’s name day, beneath his bed space. Thomas sat on his bed for longer than necessary, thinking about the gypsy crone.

‘Get yourselves back whence you came’, echoed as he got to his feet. That old witch, the nerve of her! Her words circled, unwanted, in his mind as he worked outside for the rest of the day.

Alissa must have noticed his bad mood, because it was only when he stopped to mop his brow that she bothered him to ask if he was hungry.

At day’s end, his back aching, his hands sore, Thomas kicked off his boots and rolled into bed.

Maybe tomorrow night, he mused as his last thought, I’ll go for a drink at The Dancing Kelpie and see Úna.

He rolled onto his back, thinking of the way her eyes lit up whenever he visited her. Eyes closing, he grinned at his last thought before sleep – stealing a few hours at the inn with such a bonny young woman.

*     *     *

The first dream sensation came from the deluge of rain, sharp and cold on his face. His dream-self stood on a cobbled street, coughing as pungent smoke cloyed his nostrils and stung his eyes.

Frantic civilians ran in all directions, screaming while half-armoured soldiers defended them as best they could from the legion of invaders.

Thomas’s eyes were drawn to the city gates. Mounted on black horses, each accompanied by a score of black hounds, the invading army rode hard into the city, slaughtering screaming people as they tried to flee past them.

The defending army hurled lances and shot arrows, but any weapon that struck true met nothing but ashes.

Ahead of this horror, men and women fled the rampaging army, calling for sanctuary at a great white castle in their city’s midst. Rain lashed the citadel. A slash of lightning across the velvet sky preceded a snarl of thunder.

“Nathair! We will not submit!”

Thomas spun around. A few steps from him, a radiant woman stood proud with her bejewelled hand forward, palm outward. A conjured shield of violet shadows protected her from the vicious attack of a single opponent.

Sneering, the dark-haired man opposite her fired bolts of magic from a black stave carved into a dragon’s likeness. The woman never flinched, protected by her magical shield, her moonmilk face twisted into a furious countenance.

Her opponent laughed, his voice echoing eerily in Thomas’s mind. “Afraid of me, vixen?”

Thomas blinked vigorously through the rain, shaking his head to keep his drenched hair out of his eyes. Eagerness to watch this battle overwhelmed him, even as his heart pounded in his throat.

“Enough of your games, Erlik!” The woman gestured with an easy, measured grace born of furiosity. A bolt of bright magic fired from her palm, striking the man, Erlik, in the chest, encasing him in a solid block of ice.

“Mab!” A cry for help on the ashy wind.

Both she and Thomas turned. The white city was ablaze. The castle overrun, dark riders swarming the streets, with more rushing over the black moors like a great wave. Thomas looked back at her. Firelight danced on Mab’s face, her eyes wide and her lips thin. Her fingers curled into fists.

Her city was lost.

Thomas looked back at her. Her fathomless eyes fell from the burning castle onto him, glittering like moonlight on ice. “Come home.”

Despite the raging din of battle around him, Thomas could hear her voice clear in his ear. So close, so real, he felt his mouth fall open.

Swallowing hard, he called, “Who are you?” But in the clamour of battle his voice was lost. “Who are you!”

Her attention had already left him.

She’d barely begun the journey back towards her crippled castle when, with a scream of rage and pain, Erlik’s frozen prison shattered. Panting, he pitched forwards. A bolt of vivid red magic, thrust from his staff, struck Mab, wrapping around her like crimson snakes. The spell trapped her arms. She cried out and tumbled to her knees.

As though the last blow had sapped it of magic, Erlik’s black staff gave a violent shudder and shattered. He stared at his empty hand for a moment, eyes wide and mouth open. Yet his face broke into a smirk when he saw Mab kneeling, struggling against her bonds.

To Thomas’s horror, Erlik sped to his captive, silent as a phantom, pulling her to her feet, wrapping his lean arms about her. Wickedly grinning, he pressed his sharp-boned cheek against hers.

“It’s all mine now,” he sneered.

Thomas’s growl sounded only to him. A bright flare forced him to shield his eyes. When he straightened again, instead of seeing that storm-sodden city, his eyes beheld Alissa and Mother’s bed space.

Both slept peacefully despite Margaret’s quiet snoring.

Wondering how he’d silently found his way in there, Thomas crept towards the thin cloth curtain that separated their bed from the kitchen.

And then he saw it: a shadow moving across the floor. Formless, no bigger than a mousing cat, the smoky beast ignored him.

With horrid fascination, Thomas watched the creature make its way towards Alissa, slithering up her blankets in deadly precision to the head of the bed. Thomas’s feet had taken root; his throat closed.

The shadow, now bent over Alissa’s face, paused. Thomas at once regained feeling in his legs. He lunged to swat the creature away, but his arm passed through shadow. Only a black cloud dislodged, evaporating gracefully into mist.

It leered as it leaned further forward. Rows of needle-teeth gleamed in the moonlight. It kissed Alissa’s cheek, then pressed close to her skin. Black shadows seeped into her flesh. Alissa moaned in her sleep. Margaret twitched.

Thomas cast about quickly, his eyes seeking a weapon, any weapon. An iron poker lay by the banked remains of the fire. He seized it, thrusting it like a sword into the shadow, only inches from his sister’s brow. It screeched above her, a hideous noise pitched between a cat’s wail and a babe’s scream.

It leapt off the bed, skittering up the wall to the window. Paused to turn, shrieking a warning. Shadows bled from the inflicted wound.

Thomas knelt by Alissa’s bedside. The hefty clang of the poker hitting the floor did nothing. She hadn’t woken; neither had Mother. Thomas looked up, but the window no longer framed the creature.

Lightning lit the forest outside. Thomas could swear he heard the baying of hounds and a wild, screeching whinny of horses. A rumble shook the house, and with the clap of thunder Thomas’s eyes snapped wide open.

Chapter 3

In which Thomas invokes the Old Ways

Sheets twisted around his clammy body. Finally untangling himself, Thomas swung his legs over the side of his bed and sat, frowning and running a hand through messy hair. Hearing his mother rattle about in the kitchen, he dragged himself to his feet.

Outside, their cockerel boasted his cry. Thomas bade his mother a brief good morning before sluggishly heading outside to splash cold water in his face. The sharp shock fully roused him from his sleepy daze.

Pushing wet hair from his eyes, he glanced across their little field before returning inside.

Margaret smiled at him, sliding a bowl of sweetened porridge onto the table. He returned the expression and sat down to eat. A comfortable silence lingered over the room.

“I need to fix the scarecrow today,” Thomas said, cheeks bulging with porridge.

Handing him a cloth to wipe his face, Margaret fondly said, “I’ll wake Alissa. She can help you after she’s eaten.”

She lifted the curtain of their bed space. At the table, Thomas absently turned his spoon over and over in his hand, trying to remember the echoes of his dream.

“Thomas! Quickly!”

Jolted from his mental task, Thomas almost upended the table in his scramble to his feet. He ripped aside the thin cloth, expecting torrents of blood, a ghastly scene, or some hideous creature.

Instead, Alissa lay peacefully sleeping, her breathing slow and deep. Margaret knelt by her bedside with wide eyes, her hands twisting around themselves, her mouth working wordlessly.

Thomas glanced instinctively at the grate where the iron poker lay, untouched.

“She won’t wake!” Margaret gingerly touched Alissa’s cheek, then drew back as if burned. “She’s ice cold! Why won’t she wake? Alissa? Alissa!”

His sister didn’t even twitch at her mother’s loud voice.

His heart thumping hard, Thomas reeled back, throwing out his arm to grab the doorframe. The walls twisted around him.

Taking charge, he forced words past the fear in his throat. “Mother, stay here. I’ll fetch the physician.”

The sun had risen high into the sky when Ambrose finally rumbled to their door in his well-travelled cart. Thomas gently coaxed Margaret out of the way, allowing the physician to take the place at Alissa’s bedside.

His weeping mother continued to mutter and furiously shuffle her prayer beads as Thomas wrapped his arm around her short, shivering frame.

Ambrose pressed his gnarled fingers against Alissa’s wrist, presumably feeling for a heartbeat. The physician gently lifted one eyelid with his left thumb, waved the opposite hand in front of it. Alissa didn’t stir. Ambrose studied further: the breath under her nose, the flutter at her throat, the flesh beneath her arms and around her neck. He even pressed the beds of her fingernails. Thomas stared. What good is this? At last, Ambrose straightened, sighing.

“She appears to be simply sleeping,” his shoulders slumped. “I can find no ailment; she shows no signs of pox or plague.” A glance at their hearth, a sniff of the air, thick with the stench of burnt rosemary. “Sweet-root tea might liven her a little. Just a couple of drops to her lips should do the trick. The only other thing I can suggest is to watch her, keep her comfortable. Wait until it passes.”

Thomas nodded mutely. His mother fell to her knees beside Alissa’s bed, grasping her daughter’s hand again, abandoning her rosary.

Ambrose shuffled out after a sympathetic pat on Margaret’s arm. Thomas accompanied him in a desperate attempt to escape his mother’s weeping.

“I’ll have some lavender sent along for your mother,” Ambrose said. “It’ll help calm her nerves.”

Her nerves? Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose.

Clambering onto his cart with a groan of old age, Ambrose paused before taking up the reins. “You know, Thomas,” he said, faltering. “You should ask Ceridwen.”

Thomas watched him trundle away, his mouth suddenly dry.

Ceridwen Wintersend.

He shivered. Thinking about the old Pagan’s secret knowledge made his heart race. A follower of the Old Ways, and a worshipper of their ancient gods. Ambrose had spoken once of finding Ceridwen returning from the darkest parts of the forest with a satchel stuffed with herbs and toadstools. Not even Thomas dared venture where Ceridwen walked with ease.

Thomas chewed his lip.

Knowing his mother’s disdain and distrust of Ceridwen’s knowledge, he stowed thoughts of her away. Mother would never allow the heathen woman into their house. Not even for Alissa’s sake.

*     *     *

Thomas counted the passing days on his mother’s retrieved rosary. The lavender Ambrose sent did nothing to ease Margaret. She barely slept, nor would she take food; Thomas had to coax her into swallowing mouthfuls of bread crusts softened in small bowls of thin broth.

Exhausted from the extra chores he now tended to, since his mother never left Alissa’s bedside, Thomas barely noticed the days growing shorter as winter began to settle in.

An entire month crawled by with no change. Like the dead, Alissa slept on. Without her cheeky laughter and playful jokes, the house felt empty. Eerie and silent. Thomas sat at her bedside whenever he could, reading to her.

He always made sure Mother wasn’t listening before allowing his sobs to escape.

Ambrose’s suggestion still fluttered around his ears like a moth. Could Ceridwen really help? Perhaps he should speak to his mother—

No, his rarely-heard reason advised, she’d never allow it.

A strained silence had laced their conversations since Alissa had fallen ill. Margaret was more likely to scream or burst into tears at any moment. Were Thomas to suggest inviting a Pagan into their homestead, Thomas imagined her heart would give out there and then.

Creeping cold chilled the village air. Ercildoune slumbered as dawn broke into the blushing sky.

A hen clucked loudly. Thomas, having escaped his mother’s dour sobbing, stood outdoors brushing Tatterfoal with absent thoughts. Skin bristling with gooseflesh, he pulled his cloak closer under his chin.

Suddenly catching sight of a small black fox skulking near the coop, he dropped the iron currycomb at once, grabbing a close-by broom and chasing the fox away with its bristles before it could spook the hens. Tatterfoal snorted at the interruption. The fox, pausing at a safe distance, growled at him before moodily slinking away.

At its movement, something lost in memory burst into recovery.

A shadow. A creature. In Alissa’s room. Kissing her.

His heart leapt into his throat. Thomas threw a long stare at the cottage door, the breeze raising his hair and sending a fresh morning chill across his skin.

As if a whip had lashed across his legs, he bridled his horse and rode to Ceridwen’s cottage.

Thomas knocked thrice on the Pagan’s door, having almost injured himself in his haste to jump up onto her raised threshold; the whole cottage was up on stilts.

No answer.

He banged again. An irritable shout issued from within, “Steady your horse, boy, I’m not as swift as I used to be.”

Ceridwen cracked the door and peered between the gap to glare at Thomas impatiently tapping on her doorframe, causing her carved latch to tremble. Thomas saw only a sliver of her silver hair, falling half across a curious brown eye.

“Ceridwen—” He got no further. The old woman opened the door fully. Thomas felt the rush of unexpected heat to his face a moment before he beheld a crackling fire behind her, and a dead crow on her worktop.

“Took your time, didn’t you?” she snapped, her voice a peculiar dancing lilt. A Waelisc accent. Not a Caledonian, Thomas noted, his ear catching the inflection. “Wondered when I’d hear something. A whole month and not a word? By the Smith, boy, what use are you? Quick now.” She turned her back, took the pot off the fire and extinguished the flames with a pail of water set beside it for that purpose.

Thomas watched, half fascinated, half impatient, as she gathered together a collection of bottles and pouches. Ceridwen patted her apron absentmindedly.

“Where did I…” she trailed off, casting a glance about her tiny kitchen. One withered finger touched the crow. A rustle of feathers. An ugly caw. The crow righted itself and stood up, cackling. It fluttered to the mantle and pecked at a bowl with its sharp, clever beak.

“Ah, there it is. Good boy.”

Giving the crow an affectionate stroke, she tipped the contents of the bowl expertly into a bottle and slipped it into her leather satchel.

Smoothing out her apron, hoisting the satchel over her shoulder, she turned back to Thomas. He gaped stupidly at her.

“Close your mouth, boy,” she snapped, pushing past him with a cluck of her tongue, waiting by his horse, “you’re not a trout.”

Thomas scowled, grabbing Tatterfoal’s reins, as Ceridwen clambered up behind his saddle.

With a protesting snort at the extra bulk from Tatterfoal, they made their way back to Thomas’s home.

Their journey back was short and uncomfortable. Ceridwen kept a tight hold around Thomas’s waist, and the smell of her sour breath choked him.

Crossing the bridge towards home, he asked, “Did you know I was coming, Ceridwen?”

The old woman stayed silent for a moment; the motion of the horse seemed close to unseating her. Thomas tugged Tatterfoal’s rein, slowing her down.

“I expected you sooner, actually,” she said eventually. “I would have thought the Hunt would bring you straight to me. Rode right past my cottage, dirty great beasts, made such a racket. Upset the goat and everything.”

The Hunt? Beasts? Thomas resisted the urge to stop the horse and ask her to explain.

“I expect Ambrose dropped my name, did he? Daft old man doesn’t know which end of a teapot to hold, but at least he knows who can help when it matters.”

Thomas sensed the pride in her voice. He rode on, his head already aching.

The moment they arrived, Ceridwen slid from Tatterfoal’s rump as easily as Alissa ever did, entering the house without invitation. Thomas quickly tethered his horse and followed behind, wringing his hands.

Thomas felt like he was intruding on something shameful when he pushed Alissa’s curtain aside, seeing Margaret with one hand pressed to her forehead. Her shoulders shook. Holding Alissa’s hand again. As if that alone would wake her.

At the sound of Thomas’s footsteps, she twisted around; her eyes, red and sore from lack of sleep and endless sobbing, drifted towards Ceridwen. Margaret gasped. For a moment, Thomas feared she’d shout, throw anything at hand, order the old woman out. Margaret’s trembling hand lifted her rosary and thrust it forward. Weak, it dropped, beads clattering against stone. Thomas’s mouth almost dropped open as she willingly moved aside.

“Please wake her,” she croaked. A captive animal. Ceridwen nodded.

“I’ll do what I can, Margaret. You and Thomas should wait in the other room so I can look her over properly.”

Margaret left with a teary hiccough, saying nothing more. Thomas glanced once at Alissa before Ceridwen obscured her frame as she leaned over her. Thomas shuffled out after his mother.

As though waiting for the hangman, the two sat in silence at the table. Thomas half expected an angry outburst from his mother, but she seemed too tired for words.

Instead, her fingers crept across the table and threaded into his. A gesture of thanks, perhaps?

“Did you finish your chores?” Margaret’s voice was stretched thin. Weak. Thomas nodded.

“And Alissa’s. And yours.”

Margaret gave him a watery smile. “You’re such a good boy, Thomas.” She paused. Then, quietly, “Maybe she can help.”

Finally, the curtain shifted. Thomas and Margaret leapt to their feet. Shaking her head, Ceridwen stepped into the larger part of the room.

With a sigh, she said, “just as I suspected. It’s a changeling.”

Thomas and Margaret looked blankly at each other. Ceridwen, with a disdainful sniff, gently pushed past mother and son. “Come, I’ll show you. We need to go to the Standing Stones before darkness settles in.”

*     *     *

The sun had sunk into the horizon, burning the sky orange and gold. Despite Margaret’s desperate wail at the suggestion they leave Alissa alone, the pair had followed Ceridwen to a steep hill past the borders of Ercildoune. Loud, hearty singing rang from the Dancing Kelpie. Thomas’s thoughts turned to Úna. She’ll be dancing now, he thought morosely.

Thomas reached the top first. Ceridwen struggled behind, up the steep hill. Margaret, wearily, came last. Thomas looked around, catching his breath as he waited for his mother and Ceridwen to wheeze up behind him.

Casting the longest of shadows, a circle of enormous stones awaited the trio. A gathering of stone giants. Thomas risked a touch of one of the stones. Warm. Tingling. Alive?

“To Annwyn with whoever insisted this circle be at the top of a hill,” Ceridwen muttered to herself, appearing over the crest.

A pyramid of kindling sat waiting in the circle’s centre, magnificent enough for a king’s pyre. Posies lay scattered around the base of the wood.

“S’blood, what is this place?” Margaret blurted, her shoulders hunched, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Thomas could see her fingers trembling.

“I need to ask her help,” Ceridwen said, moving around the wood, striking flint at intervals against the bonfire. Thomas watched her, silently counting. Seven times she scratched the flint, blowing into the wood. The glowing sparks bit and blossomed, devouring the dried leaves and bracken. Margaret pursed her lips.

“You’re not… don’t you dare!” she said angrily, “I won’t be part of this—this blasphemy!”

She stepped back and only Thomas grabbing her arm prevented her from falling down the hill.

The bonfire flared into life. “You think I want to do this?” Ceridwen said. “She’s temperamental, I know. But this is the only way I can think to wake Alissa. She’s the only one who can help, Margaret. If she ever deigns to leave Albion, mind…” she added.

Shuffling widdershins around the blaze, Ceridwen threw posies onto the fire. The flowers and herbs ignited instantly to ash, sending curling waves of scented smoke spiralling into the air.

“Albion?” Recognition wriggled in Thomas’s chest.

Ceridwen smiled mysteriously. “The land beyond the bridge, where Alissa will be.”

Thomas looked between his mother and this unnatural woman, his brow creased, silently praying someone would explain in terms he’d recognise.

“I need to speak to Queen Mab. Risky lighting the fire, but—ahh, there we go.”

The bonfire’s flames blazed a brilliant white, searing into Thomas’s eyes.

His heart pulsed in his throat. The flames leapt higher. Despite their warmth, Thomas felt a chill prickle his skin.

Queen Mab.

Her name aroused fear, desire, excitement inside him. I know that name.

Thunder growled. Under the iron sky, heaving in the throes of a sudden storm, Thomas looked up and shuddered. The hairs on his arms bristled. Some mad voice inside him demanded he leap into the flames.

A bolt of lightning struck the stone behind him. Thomas jumped away; the rock split in half with a deafening crack. The menhir fell forward.

Margaret screamed, instinct lifting her arms.

Thomas grabbed a handful of his mother’s cloak, dragging her out of the way. The boulder slammed into the earth close enough to crush her shadow. Clouds of dust befogged their vision, choking them. Coughing, Thomas blinked the dust from his vision.

A small glow – an insect? – sat calmly on the stone’s jagged edge.

A tiny female body took form, glowing with unearthly light. Margaret stepped back, gasping, away from the two pearlescent wings, gleaming like oil on water, fluttering on the tiny faery’s shoulders. Thomas stared.

With dismal disappointment, he said, “That’s Queen Mab?”

Pouting, the creature fluttered towards Thomas and sharply nipped his cheek.

“OW!” he swatted the creature away, scowling. She dodged his clumsy swipe with a nimble flutter of her colourful wings, then childishly poked out her tongue.

“No,” Ceridwen sighed. “She’s a faery. A seelie. I must have cast the wrong summoning spell.” Her voice held a self-berating tone. “Come, we’ll talk back at your house.”

Ceridwen stepped away from the bonfire with a glance up at the sky. Margaret, suspiciously eyeing the faery, darkly muttered under her breath. Thomas caught the word ‘blasphemy’ again. Deciding to remain silent, he followed Ceridwen back down the hill, Margaret bringing up the rear. It appeared she wanted to keep her distance from the faery.

Ceridwen beckoned the faery closer. “It’s not safe out in the open with a seelie at night.”

Chapter 4

In which Thomas embarks on his journey

In silence, Thomas and his mother sat at the table, watching Ceridwen. She’d assembled a seven-pointed star out of wildflowers and lit the wicks of two half-melted candles. To Margaret’s obvious chagrin, the flames burned pure white. Just like the fire had earlier, on the hill.

Sitting cross-legged on the table, the seelie looked curiously around the room, humming a soft, merry tune to herself. Thomas couldn’t direct his gaze to anywhere but her. A womanly figurine, subtle curves muted by the glow cast by her pearly wings, a soft gossamer gown hugging her small body. She could easily perch in the palm of Thomas’s hand.

Ceridwen closed the window shutters. “What’s your name, sweetling?”

Wings twitching, the faery clambered to her feet. Margaret sat in silence with wide, unblinking eyes. Eager for answers, Thomas sat up a little straighter. His skin still prickled, despite the room’s warmth.

In a voice far more human than Thomas had expected, she answered, “Thistledown, of Elphame,” her eyes on Margaret. “You were trying to summon Queen Mab?”

“Yes, we need to ask her help. A young girl has been taken.” Ceridwen sat down at the head of the table. “Replaced with a changeling.”

Margaret stiffened, blanching at having her business so casually spoken of.

Thistledown shuddered. Lifting herself up into the air, her wings fluttered so fast they became a blur of light.

“Oh. That won’t be easy. Queen Mab is in hiding. She won’t respond to any call or summon.” With a shy smile she offered, “I can help, though, as best I can.”

Ceridwen nodded, looking to Thomas and Margaret, who stared blankly back. Beaming proudly, Thistledown turned in midair to gaze at Thomas.

“Tell them about changelings first, Thistldown.” Ceridwen set both elbows on the rough table. “The luckless souls ought to know.”

Thistledown lowered herself again and paced back and forth before her questioner. Thomas noticed she often gestured with her tiny hands when she spoke. He couldn’t resist smiling.

“Well,” she paused and drew in a breath. She seemed to be steeling herself. “Changelings are left behind in place of mortal bodies when the unseelie take them. Under a cloak of shadows, an unseelie will kiss a human – it’s more of a bite, really. They have a kind of poison that draws the Host. That—that’s when they come…” she trailed off, shivering.

She ran her tongue over her lips, then gulped and continued, “They come in the night, you know, to steal the mortal away. Then they leave a changeling, a wooden doll, and give it breath, but not life, in place of a mortal’s body—”

“Oh, Alissa…” Margaret moaned, eyes filling up. She buried her face in her hands. Meanwhile, trembling, Thistledown stared at Thomas.

With a hundred questions tumbling through his mind, only the shortest fell from Thomas’s mouth. “What’s the Host?”

Thistledown shuddered again. She said nothing.

Ceridwen took over, “The Host, the Wild Hunt, surely you’ve heard…” she cast a quick frown at Margaret, then muttered something about the new religion. “They’re huntsmen, the souls of dead men, accompanied by a thousand black hounds, snatching any who get in their way.”

His head pounding too hard to think, Thomas ran his tongue over dry lips, staring between Thistledown and Ceridwen. Faded visions flooded his mind: a swarm of dead men on horseback.

“Do they have a leader? Or a king?” he pressed. Ceridwen frowned.

“I’m not sure. I suppose he who governs the unseelie would also control the Hunt. Prince Erlik.”

Thistledown’s glow dimmed. She shivered again, wrapping her arms around her tiny body.

“Shh, he’ll hear you,” she breathed. Thomas regarded her with concern. Ceridwen was too busy staring suspiciously at Thomas to notice the faery’s discomfort. Margaret, who’d been sobbing uncontrollably into her arms, lifted her head, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Why do you ask?” Ceridwen narrowed her eyes slightly.

Feebly, he explained what he could remember of his dream.

“And there was a woman too, fighting a dark man,” he finished. “Some kind of sorcerer, I think. I’m sorry, I can hardly remember. Except that he said, everything is mine now.”

Ceridwen exchanged glances with Thistledown. Her fast-beating wings fanning Thomas’s face, the faery lifted herself up and fluttered in front of him.

“In the war between the seelie and the unseelie,” Thistledown said, gesticulating again. “Queen Mab was deposed by—by the Dark Prince. Elphame, our city, was taken over.” She addressed Thomas directly now, “Our queen managed to escape, but no one has seen her since; we don’t know where she is now. We live in hope that one day she’ll return to her throne and drive out the Dark Prince.”

Another chill creeping up his arms, Thomas once more heard hounds baying and horses screaming, echoing in his mind. He gulped. The room fell silent for a long time, broken eventually by Margaret’s restrained gulping sob.

“S-so is Alissa… one of those—those demons?”

Thistledown shook her head at Margaret.

“No, no,” she corrected, “Huntsmen are created by the souls of men. Mortal women he keeps in the castle at Elphame. She’ll still be alive, I can promise you that.”

“Then, h-how do we bring her back?” Silence again. Ceridwen fixed her eyes on Thomas, who stared at Thistledown. She gazed back, fidgeting with her fingers, throwing him shy smiles.

“I’ll go get her. Thistledown can show me the way.”

Ceridwen barely blinked in surprise. Margaret, however, sharply stood.

“You will not!” she snapped, furiously wiping away her tears, a palm flat on the table.

“Mother—”

Margaret banged her fist now. “No, Thomas! What if something happens? How can we trust this… this creature?”

Thistledown pouted, folding her arms. “That’s not—”

“I forbid you,” Mother continued, her breathing heavy. Thomas glared. “I’ve lost Alissa, I’m not losing you as well.”

“I’m not a child, Mother. I’m going to get Alissa back. You do want her back, don’t you?”

“You dare!? Of course I want her—”

“—then let me go!”

The silence rang. Thomas’s hands shook. Mother and son glared; Margaret wilted first. She sat, staring at her hands without properly seeing them.

Thistledown looked awkwardly between both, her trembling wings betraying fright. Ceridwen took a deep breath. She laid a hand on Margaret’s shoulder.

“This is the only way to save Alissa, Margaret. I’ll stay here awhile, if you like? For company?”

Margaret mouthed wordlessly at her offer, momentarily horrified that a Pagan woman should offer to live with her. Her pride withered. She nodded.

Thomas held out a hand flat for Thistledown. She jumped onto his palm with a little flutter of her wings.

“Will you help me?” he asked, in a voice as soft as her beating wings.

Though her eyes looked nervous, Thistledown smiled. “Of course.”

Thomas let her down onto the table and stood. He strode to his room to collect his half-blunt sword. Silently cursing himself for not maintaining the old blade, fastening the buckles of his belt, he headed for the door.

“If you think you can just wander into Albion with no equipment, you’ll be dead before you even cross the bridge,” Ceridwen barked, tugging his right arm. A stern grandmotherly look in her eyes, she muttered mostly to herself. “Blockheaded twpsyn. No food, no weapons…”

Thomas raised an eyebrow, looking down at his sword blankly. Ceridwen took the iron poker from out the hearth and handed it to him.

“Cold iron burns Fair Folk. Take your sword, if you think you need it, but this will help more.”